


Eight Years

by wybiegowritey



Category: Six of Crows Series - Leigh Bardugo
Genre: Gen, Grishaverse Big Bang 2019, NO THIS DOES NOT MEAN I SHIP MARYA/JAN, asylum stuff as well as domestic violence in this please be warned!!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-19 02:22:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22003696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wybiegowritey/pseuds/wybiegowritey
Summary: Told in time intervals of eight years, we see glimpses of Marya Hendriks’ life, and how she changed from a woman with a sun for a heart to someone who lives as a ghost. We find out how a ghost can find light again, no matter how long they are in the dark.
Relationships: Marya Hendriks & Wylan Van Eck, Marya Hendriks/Jan Van Eck
Comments: 8
Kudos: 10
Collections: Grishaverse Big Bang 2019





	Eight Years

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the Grishaverse Big Bang!! I'm so excited I got to be apart of this! My gang is the BEST and I love them all so much. Although I'm around 500 words short of the 10k limit, I'm proud I got this far. I really hope you all enjoy it!!

**Part One: Eight Years Old**

_ The piano is the worst thing ever, _ Marya thought as she plopped down on the bench. She was supposed to be practicing for a small competition later in the week, playing some Fjerdan opera song that she didn’t care for. She’d been practicing every day, but she didn’t care enough about the piece to spend as much time on it as she was supposed to. By her fifth run through she was sick of it; in fact, she was so sick of it she had ended the stupid song abruptly before going downstairs to paint.

Today her mother was watching her to make sure that she’d practice the amount her tutor had told her to. She placed her hands on the keys and started playing, reading the chords and notes and transferring them to her fingers. She let her mind wander as she played, her eyes wandering to the window. It was early afternoon, and the sun shone into her eyes. She squinted in disgust, then quickly looked away. Her fingers slipped and she hit the wrong keys, and she rolled her eyes in annoyance. She internally cursed the sun for inconveniencing her this way.

“Marya, start again,” her mother snapped. “You will not mess up at this recital.”

_ I don’t care,  _ she thought as she flipped the pages back to the beginning. In previous competitions, she’d always somehow  _ accidentally _ mess up; once she was playing something completely different from what she was supposed to play. She got into a  _ lot _ of trouble for doing that.

But when she did play, with no “accidental” mess ups, she played beautifully. She lulled the children in the audience to almost-sleep, she enchanted the adults and enamored the judges. Not that Marya really cared. She didn’t exactly feel like she had a control over what she wanted to do. She never really wanted to play the piano, or have anything to do with music. Her parents had hired someone to teach her piano, and she’d been playing since.

After her fifth time rehearsing the song, Marya groaned. She rubbed her eyes and turned to her mother. “Are we done yet?”

“No, we’re not,” her mother replied. She sat down next to her and wrapped her arm around her shoulder. “Why are you so stubborn about the piano?”

Marya huffed and crossed her arms. “I don’t know--It’s boring, I never wanted to play it in the first place, and I just… I really don’t want to do much of anything with music.”

“Sweetheart,” her mother began. Marya rolled her eyes, preparing for the next lecture. “Music is another language that is both heard and felt, just like words. But unlike words, music isn’t forgotten. It stays with you because it connects to your emotions. An angry feeling goes into the lower minor octaves, creating a dark theme. If you’re happy, it would go into the higher majors to convey something… magical.”

Marya was shocked by what her mother said--To her, it wasn’t so much as a scolding as much as it was a lesson. 

“If you want to shout, you play it loudly, right?” her mother continued. She took the music sheet with the Fjerdan opera song and set it aside. “With music, and with the piano, you can let it all out without a single word. Just let your mind tell your fingers what to do.”

Marya nodded, pressing her fingers to the keys. She didn’t know what she felt, exactly. Taking a deep breath, she opened her mind. The notes went from low to middle, creating what sounded like mysterious to curiosity, then it went to excited as her pace quickened, higher notes forming into a series of enchantments. 

When she finished, she felt elated--she actually believed she could be good at something. Her mother smiled. “See, Marya? You let your emotions go, and that made something gorgeous.”

Marya cocked her head to the side, and a smile formed. “So what would the emotions be with the opera song?”

Her mother put the sheet music back on the bar. “Well, what do you think they are?”

Marya thought about the piece. The opera as a whole was about a woman with the power to crush hearts in an instant--a Grisha Heartrender--and how she became a threat to a young Fjerdan boy, tricking him into moving against his own country. In the end, they both died. The boy was executed because of treason and the Heartrender had died buried in the snow. It was called  _ Drusje end Isenulf-- _ the Witch and the Wolf. 

Marya thought it was not a subtle way of telling the world how much Fjerda disliked Ravka.

The part of the opera she was going to play was at the part where the Heartrender was supposed to trick the boy into going against his government. She had convinced him that she’d fallen in love with him, and had told him the only way they’d be together was if he’d disowned his country. 

“I guess it’s… suspenseful, enchanting, angry,” she replied. “And it’s lovely. That’s what it is.”

Her mother stood up, gesturing for her to play again. Marya laid her hands onto the keys again, and now the notes and chords seemed to become part of her. It felt like magic as she begun, like something had changed. Her eyes had opened: the piano was not, in fact, boring or stupid or anything she’d called it over the last two years. It was magic, like what she’d heard about the Grisha in Ravka and what she’d seen when the Council of Tides would summon the canal waters to their hands. It had gotten suspenseful, then angry, then to love. 

Marya could feel the Fjerdan boy’s contempt, his despair, and then his heart. She felt his love for the Heartrender grow with each passing second, and she felt him open his eyes to what the Heartrender was telling him. She felt them fall in love.

She finished the piece with the crescendo that left her heart soaring.

Her mother clapped, hard, and then said, “I think we’re done for the day, dear. That is wonderful.”

***

Marya Hendriks ended up getting first place in the competition later that week. The judges, along with everyone else, told her that the way she played was like nothing they’d ever seen or heard before. She was very proud of herself, and she dreamed of writing her own songs, maybe find faster paced ones to compete with as well. 

That night, she’d gone to sleep with her head full of ideas, excitement, and pride. She dreamed of the competition, of enraptured faces in the crowd. But before long, there was something dark was in the audience. It consumed the scene, overtaking everything in sight, until it was just Marya. Soon, she saw a faceless boy sitting next to her at the piano, playing beautifully in a duet. 

Then, voices spoke into her ear. Marya’s skin crawled, as if there were insects crawling over her body.  _ “--will be taken care of, my love. He won’t be my son any longer.” _

_ “Love comes with a price. Who will hold the knife to your heart, Marya?” _

_ “Heaven help the fool who falls in love.” _

She shot up with a gasp, sitting so straight in her bed that she scared herself again. A thousand questions crammed into her head all at once:  _ Who was that? Whose voice did I hear? Who was the boy sitting next to me? And what does it all mean? _

Since then, she’d get those nightmares every so often. Once she’d dreamed of a young boy with a flute, and perhaps curly hair? She couldn’t remember. She didn’t know why she was getting these, nor who the people in her dreams were. Marya believed them to be the monsters underneath her bed. She hoped the monsters would soon leave her dreams.

**Part Two: Sixteen Years Old**

Marya Hendriks had at least three suitors visiting her today. Just like the ones from the day before and the day before that, they would talk to her about their triumphs, proclaim their supposed love for her, or they would only talk about her looks. She would deny all of them. They never wanted to know her, who she was. They wanted the image of her, and only to create a family with her. 

Her father and mother urged her to choose someone, anyone, but Marya refused to marry a man who had no true love for her. She wanted a family, one that was built on trust, hope. One that was… unique, so to say. 

The first suitor that came to her door today interrupted her when she greeted him. He was overconfident and talked about her as if she was just an object. He wrapped his arm around her shoulder and pulled her in so tight she could smell the sweat from his armpit. It was clear to Marya that she meant only an asset, a thing to make children with but not truly love. Marya waited patiently for him to finish, then politely rejected him.

The second boy that visited was so self-centered Marya almost interrupted him and sent him out the door. He somehow related everything she spoke about to him--it was  _ infuriating _ . She couldn’t stand to be with someone like that. She was relieved when it was time for him to go.

The third one, however, was different. He showed up with a bouquet of roses in his hand, and had shyly handed them to her. He was quiet while speaking to her parents, kind. Marya was intrigued, but she wasn’t swayed yet.

She took him onto a small tour of her house, and once they’d gotten to what Marya called the music room, Jan peered inside. “Do you like to play the piano?” he asked. It had a large, oak piano in the middle of it, other instruments her younger brother liked to mess around with scattered around. That piano, though, was Marya’s source of joy. Once she’d found that love, she’d never stopped playing. 

“Yes, I do,” she said. “I’ve won many competitions. Do you want to play?”

The boy looked at her, his expression going from intrigued to a little shocked. He brushed back his blonde hair and nodded. “I’m not too good, though.”

“That’s okay. Let’s stumble, and then I can try teaching,” she suggested. She sat next to him, reminded slightly of the nightmares she used to have, but she put down the thought and sealed it away. They duetted, stumbling through the most basic songs, hitting notes that were slightly off key. Marya gave him tips, showing him how to get the notes he required for the songs, and soon they were duetting without any troubles. When it was time for him to go, she found that she wanted him to stay, if only a few minutes longer.

“Remind me, please, what was your name?” Marya asked. 

“Jan,” he answered, the corners of his mouth rising into a grin. “Jan Van Eck.”

“Well, Jan Van Eck, I think we will see each other again,” she said, and Jan’s grin broke into a large smile. He kissed her hand and left; Marya didn’t know if it was because of the way he’d greeted her, or how he was genuinely interested in her, or how he let her guide him in the piano, but something about him had her heart thrumming to its own chords, its own rhythm, playing a song between two lungs:  _ Love _ .

***

Marya saw Jan again a week later, in a warm afternoon on Goedmede Bridge. She’d been there because the sun was high and shining against the buildings, making it seem like Ketterdam was glowing in gold and white. She just  _ had _ to paint it. 

After carrying her easel and canvas to a somewhat deserted bridge, Marya didn’t anticipate that Jan would be walking the same path too. Her canvas had been slipping from her fingers when he’d appeared behind her and grabbed it, making her jump.

“Miss Hendriks,” he said calmingly, pulling the empty canvas into his arms. “Would you like some help?”

“Oh, Jan! It’s you!” She let out a sigh of relief and looked at the paints she was holding. Without another word, Jan had slung some of them up his arm. “Thank you so much. What brings you here?”

Jan’s cheeks went slightly pink, a small smile rising. “I take walks on Goedmede Bridge frequently. It’s warm and very, very, beautiful, just like the women walking on it.”

Marya felt her cheeks go crimson. No one had ever commented on her like that, and her heart thumped louder and louder with every breath they shared. As she put down her easel and set up her canvas and paints, she stammered, “Thank you, I thought… I thought it was beautiful as well. That’s why I brought all this.”

“Oh, really? I like to paint as well,” he said, leaning on the bridge’s rail, unfair ocean blue eyes on her. “What do you like to paint?”

“Landscapes, people, the things I find beautiful.” Marya let out a small breath, then looked at him in the eye. “And handsome men I see leaning on a bridge next to me.”

Jan barked a laugh. Marya looked out at the stunning view of the canals and buildings, the sun, and back at Jan. The way the sun glinted off his blonde hair and made his eyes like jewels made her heart race faster than it had before. He looked like a boy who’d been showered in Ghezen’s treasures.

“Jan, stay like that, please,” she requested. Jan cocked an eyebrow as she hurried to fix her easel and canvas to face him. “This will not take long.”

Jan smiled in confirmation, and Marya immediately got to work. Her brushes chose the colors she needed for the portrait, colors that would end up making the image of the sixteen-year-old before her. 

As soon as she’d gotten the basic shape and colors, she told Jan that he could relax. He walked over to her side, watching her paint for the lesser part of an hour. Despite the short amount of time she’d spent on the little project, she was very proud of the painting--every detail was shown, from the strands in his hair to the intricate windows, to the way his sleeves rolled to his elbows. Even the concrete of the bridge was in perfect detail. 

Marya looked up at Jan when she finished, satisfied at his dropped jaw and wide eyes. She smirked before putting away her brushes carefully and neatly, closing the lids on her paints, letting her portrait dry. 

“What do you think?” she asked.

“I… I…” His mouth opened and closed, throat working. “I think it’s the most gorgeous painting I’d ever seen. You are absolutely brilliant, Miss Hendriks--”

“Marya,” she interrupted politely. “You can call me Marya, you know.”

A moment passed between them. “Marya,” he breathed. “You’re brilliant. The most wonderful woman I’ve ever met.”

“And you’re the most wonderful man I’ve ever met,” she said, a smile forming. “You can keep it, Jan. After it dries, of course.”

Jan gaped again. He composed himself quicker this time, his cheeks red. “You know, it’s usually the gentleman who makes gifts for the lady.”

“Well, you’ll just have to give me a gift in return.”

“How can I ever give you something as heartfelt as this?”

Now it was time for Marya’s cheeks to go red. She even felt it in her ears, and although she’d been raised to never make a move, their relationship was already one where their roles were slightly reversed—she made a gift for him when he was supposed to do that for her. She showed him a part of her that she’d shown no other suitor. The idea in her mind made her cheeks redder.

“You could give me a kiss,” she suggested.

Jan was silent for a few minutes. She didn’t say anything, either, looking out at the canal water, watching the boats float, making their way to the heart of Ketterdam. Jan reached for her hand, and Marya tore her gaze from the waterways, their fingers intertwining.

Before she knew what was happening, Jan was holding her chin, tilting her head up. They shared a kiss, a small one—it was sweet, perfect, and short. But it had firepower to it. It felt like fireworks, it felt like shooting stars; it was hope, it was out of this world. She was flying. The canal waters were far below them, and what she thought was love filled her head to toe. She held that feeling tight to her. And although she did not know it at the time, that kiss would be the start of something devastating.

He pulled away from her, resting his forehead against hers.

Ever since that warm afternoon (or maybe it had been since the piano lesson), they’d been inseparable. Their hearts belonged to each other. They did almost everything together, giving each other small gifts like flowers, or maybe a piece of jewelry, or even just a kiss. They’d become each other’s other half, they were each other’s head and heart. It was clear: the two were made for each other.

Marya Hendriks became Marya Van Eck five months after they’d met (that was also when her nightmares had stopped haunting her). Neither of their parents wasted any time once they were told that Marya and Jan wanted to get married. She still would paint portraits for her husband—of the birds she’d seen outside their home on Geldstraat, or of the boats in the canals. Sometimes even of the waves that rode up the obelisk towers the Council of Tides occupied. 

Eight years of trying for a child had passed, and she was still painting for Jan. But finally, now, she was painting for the newest member of the Van Eck family.

**Part Three: Twenty-Four Years Old**

Little hands grasped at the white keys of the piano, fingers forming into tiny fists and smashing them chaotically. A giggle erupted from the drooling child.

Wylan Van Eck stood on top of the piano bench, his mother holding him up so he wouldn’t lose his balance. He shrieked as he smashed the keys again, notes playing in a cacophony of sounds one would never want to hear.

It took Marya little time to settle him down in her lap, making sure he was not going to slide off of her. “Do you want to hear me play  _ again _ , Wy?” she asked him in a singsong voice. He babbled in reply. She placed her hands on the piano, took a deep breath, and began.

The melody was slow, somber, and harmonic. It was a lullaby, one that her mother had taught her and one she would teach Wylan when he was old enough. At this age, Wylan loved the sounds the piano made, loved music. She played every day not just for herself but for him as well.

Wylan fell asleep soundly, but she still kept playing the song until it was over. To her surprise, he didn’t wake up when the lullaby ended. She scooped him into her arms and carried him to his crib, where birds waited for him outside the window. 

Jan had walked into the hallway quietly just as Marya shut the door. They waited for a moment, and let out a small sigh when Wylan didn’t wake up. The two made their way downstairs, sitting next to each other in the dining room. Tea with honey and jade was already set out for them, and they had much to talk about, including Wylan’s future.

“How was taking care of our boy today?” he asked her, giving her a peck on the cheek.

Marya smiled, rubbing some lost sleep away from her eyes. “Oh, you know, the usual,” she began. “He loves smashing the keys of the piano. I don’t know why. I fear all the servants’ ears will bleed. But I will say that he is close to taking his first step.”

Jan tucked a curl behind her ear, a soft smile tugging at his face. “Lovely,” he whispered. Then, he cleared his throat. “On the subject of the piano: How do you feel about putting Wylan with an instrument when he’s about six or seven?”

“I love it!” Marya sat up with the excited shout. “I can teach him piano. But if he wants to pick his own instrument, I’m letting him try out and find what he’s most passionate about.”

“Of course, darling,” Jan said. “Other things he’ll need to learn are, obviously, history, mathematics, the sciences…” 

Jan read some of the subjects out loud, which included dancing, writing and finances--all things that Jan had needed to learn about so he could run the Van Eck estate. Some of them Marya didn’t have to learn because she was destined to be the proper wife. When she was younger, she didn’t like the idea--she’d wanted to have many adventures, and after starting a family, go on more adventures with them. But being with Jan, and actually  _ starting _ a family, she’d realized that what the other women her age had and were doing now--being a  _ proper wife _ \--was what she wanted to do, as well. So she put the thought and desire of traveling down and stayed on Geldstraat.

She noted that her husband ran a hand through his hair as though he were worried, and it dawned on her that maybe he was never told how to raise a child. Or perhaps he was worried about Wylan’s future.

“I believe he will make a fine little leader,” she told him in a reassuring voice. “Because you’re his father, I think he may be one of the best merchers.”

“How so?” probed Jan.

“You’re kind. You’re compassionate,” Marya said. “You have so many good qualities to you that it would be quite impossible for Wylan not to turn out like you.”

Jan let out a sigh. “You’re a fantastic woman, you know. Go get some rest before he wakes up.”

Marya gave him a quick kiss, then headed to their room at the end of the hallway upstairs. It didn’t take long for her to fall asleep, but the last thing she thought of before she drifted was of how much her son would accomplish when he’d grow up—travelling to different countries, changing the world, meeting people who would value him as a person and would do anything for him.

***

Marya woke a little under an hour later to Wylan babbling to someone outside of the bedroom. She pushed herself out of bed and walked into the hallway, Wylan clutched in Jan’s arms. As soon as Wylan turned his eyes to her, he reached for her. 

“Yes, my boy. That’s your mama,” Jan said, striding to her so she could take him. 

“Yes, that’s me.  _ Mama _ .”

“Ma… ma,” Wylan babbled.  _ “Mama.” _

The word took a second to register, and both Marya and Jan’s faces split into wide smiles. Their son’s first word came, and it filled Marya with a new love for her family. She took Wylan from Jan and kissed his forehead. 

“I love you so much,” she said to both.

“I love you, too,” Jan replied, kissing her cheek. Wylan just babbled again, occasionally shouting the word ‘mama’ in.

**Part Four: Thirty-Two Years Old**

“ _ Mama _ ! Do you want to hear the new song I’m learning?” 

The words had come from a tiny mouth, the mouth of an eight year old boy with uncontrollable curls and a toothy grin. A tooth was missing from the top row, creating a slight whistle as he spoke. 

She was stuck in bed with lung fever, a sickness that could be cured within a few weeks. She had gotten it from Wylan, who had contracted it from Ghezen knows where. She suspected in Elling, where it was so cold their staff were getting sick so badly they had to come back before they were supposed to. 

Wylan felt bad about giving her this sickness, but was not allowed to see her often in case he’d get it again. He came in today with his flute, an instrument he’d taken up about two years ago. At first, he’d been out of tune, sometimes not even making a tune at all, but he’d been determined to master the glittering object. He practiced at least an hour every single day, without fail.

In fact, that was what he had come to see her for. He had just learned how to play a new song, one that was slightly more complicated than the old ones he was learning—lullabies and soft music.

“Of course I do,” she said, her throat coated in wool. She then went into another coughing fit, covering her mouth with a cloth. Wylan was a little stunned, not really knowing what to do. He scrambled out of a servant’s way when she came in with tea and medicine.

“Young Master Wylan, you shouldn’t be here,” she scolded lightly after giving Marya the medicine and tea. “Your mother needs to rest.”

“No, no,” Marya interrupted, putting down the tea cup. The cough was receding now. “He can stay.”

The nurse twisted her lips into a slight frown, but left them be. Marya turned to her son, who’d been waiting patiently in the back of the room, fiddling with the silver instrument nervously. She beckoned him, and he strode over to her eagerly, his flute already going up to his lips.

He stumbled through the first few bars of the song, but once he’d gotten the hang of it, the song floated in a high, rich note, one that was fit for a reel. It was soft, then sped up, and within a few minutes she realized it was the tune to a reel she and Jan used to sing together. 

The song had come from the Wandering Isle. She’d never visited the country, but they’d heard it when Jan had taken her to the Kaelish embassy to meet with a friend of his, and they’d never stopped singing it together.

Wylan ended it with a sharp crescendo, and she clapped wildly for him. His face flushed red. “That was very good, Wylan!” she praised. She scruffed his hair and kissed the top of his head. “Did I ever tell you that I had been around your age when I started playing the piano?”

“Really?” Wylan’s eyes were dazzling, star struck gaze completely focused on Marya. She guessed he didn’t know much about this part of her life--she didn’t talk about it enough.

“Yes,” she said. “My mother had hired a tutor to teach me how to play, and for the first two years, I  _ hated _ it. But I was good, so I continued. After those two years, I grew to love the piano and  _ that _ was when I’d gotten exceedingly better. I got better at playing faster paced songs, I even wrote some pieces myself. Eventually, I was winning competitions both nationally and small ones in the city.”

After a small beat, Wylan proudly said,  _ “ _ I love you, Mama _.” _

That was when her husband came in, and a kind of darkness cast over his face. It was only there for a second, and if Marya hadn’t been looking at his eyes, she wouldn’t have noticed--they went from a blue that had something hidden in its crevices, something dark and menacing waiting to be let out, to what she remembered: kind and thoughtful. That dark look had been haunting Jan for a few months now, but she never brought it up. 

They’d gotten into a lot more fights since that look had come--Jan suspecting that Wylan couldn’t read, then coming to the conclusion that he’d never be able to take over their empire.  _ Wylan won’t grow to be a man, _ he’d said.  _ Wylan cannot--love, we should have another proper-- _

_ No, no. I don’t want to--right now, _ she’d replied back.  _ I just want to see him grow, then we can see. Alright? _

Each argument since then had been a repeat, growing more intense than the last. He’d try convincing her that Wylan was not fit to lead, she’d say no to him, they’d argue, then it would settle down until the next argument. They did their best not to argue in front of Wylan, but she could tell that he suspected something was wrong. 

Jan stood in the doorway now, the darkness gone. He smiled at their son, and then said, “My love, you and I are going to the countryside--the fresh air will help your lungs and you will get better.”

_ Why the country? _ she thought.  _ Strange. _ “All right, darling,” she said after a moment. “When do we leave?”

“Two days,” Jan replied back. He waved Wylan over to him, who bristled. Marya kissed the top of his head as a goodbye, and Wylan walked over to his father with his shoulders tense and his arms and legs stiff.  _ They look so much alike, _ she noted. “I’ll get the servants packing our things.”

_ There _ . She saw it again: darkness. It was intense, terrifying, and it seemed to leap from his body and, with one sharp talon, snag at her throat. It consumed Jan and Wylan as they left, and Marya had a terrifying thought, one that kept her awake all night long: that darkness would somehow transfer to Wylan eventually. Her eyelids flew open and she screamed and thrashed. Her eyes darted around the room, grounding herself in the shadows of her bedroom. Had she fallen asleep? Did she dream it? It didn’t matter. Servants came running to her aid, and she could only stay silent.

***

Two days later, Marya had said her goodbyes to Wylan and the servants. She’d left hand-in-hand with Jan, servants trailing behind them. Travel took the entire day, and by the time they’d made it to the cottage in the countryside, she’d nearly collapsed from exuding so much energy. 

She’d fallen into bed with tea at her side and sleep cradling her. 

Over the next few days, her health had gotten better, and within a week, she was cured. Jan and Marya rejoiced at once, and that was when Jan brought  _ it _ back up.

“My love, now that you are better, maybe we could--”

“No thanks, Jan,” she’d politely said, already knowing what he was going to request.

“Marya,” Jan sighed. “Please, Wylan is not fit to lead my empire. He cannot even read a simple sentence. I--”

“ _ So what _ if he can’t read?” Marya finally snapped, all the anger oozing out of her like blood running from a small wound. “Being illiterate doesn’t mean he can’t do anything. Doing the things  _ you _ do takes passion and dedication, which are things that Wylan is capable of having. In fact, he already--”

Jan slapped her, the sound of his hand connecting with her cheek like a clap of thunder. She keeled over, holding her cheek tenderly, the sting ricocheting throughout her body in tremors. She caught her breath again, then looked up. 

Jan was panting. He collected himself, fixing his tie and his hair, letting Marya stand up on her own. He brushed himself off, and a troubled expression appeared on his face. 

“Darling.” He reached out to her, but she was quick to move away from him, swatting his hand away. His features then turned cold, darkness crowding him. “We leave tomorrow.”

The next day, she was brought to what looked like a church. Flowers were on either side of the door, the sun hit the building almost perfectly, but Marya noticed two things that alarmed her: bars were on the windows, and she could hear bone chilling shrieks emerging.

“Darling, why are we here?” she asked meekly as Jan guided her to the door.

“Nothing, dear.”

After a few knocks, a woman in gray appeared and let them inside. Marya realized that what she was wearing was a smock; nurse’s attire. But why was a nurse in a church like this?

“Is this Marya?” she’d asked. 

“Yes, I am Marya,” Marya replied before Jan could. She noted the way the woman locked the door, and the other nurses standing by. Something was wrong, but she didn’t know what.

“Oh! A talker, eh? I am Betje.”

She sat down, two nurses appearing at either side of her. Jan and Betje exchanged a few words she didn’t hear, and as soon as they sat down, Jan commented, “Well, money is the most important thing, right?”

Betje giggled, then brought out a paper, reciting words that Marya recognized-- _ Hendriks; in full sight of Ghezen; Transfer of Authority _ \--and it dawned on Marya.  _ This is an asylum. _

She believed that this man had loved her, and she didn’t think until now that he’d just wanted her money. She was warned in those dreams she’d had when she was young that love came with a price. Was this the price she’d pay for falling in love with a Van Eck? She was trapped now, thinking that their love was soft and sweet. It only turned him into a hunter, greedy for power and money.

He’d just wanted a child with a woman like her. Her entire fortune would be in his name, and what would she get out of it? Claims that she’s mad?  _ Marya Van Eck, you are a fool, _ she thought to herself. 

Her eyes caught Jan’s gaze, searching for any sign of who he’d been--the boy who had shyly given her a bouquet of roses, stumbled through the piano with her; the man who’d laughed with her eight years ago come fall--but only found resentment, regret, and cunning in those endless blue eyes. There was almost no light in them. She never knew that light could be turned to such violence.

His hand flew across the page, and the reality of the situation slapped Marya in the face yet again. The Transfer of Authority was done.

“ _ Jan _ ,” she whispered, fingers gripping the arm of the chair. She started to stand, but nurses pushed her down by the shoulders. She wrenched herself out of their grasp, pushing them out of her way. She clutched at Jan’s coat, her voice now almost a shout. “Jan, wait--what about Wylan? He needs--”

“Wylan will be taken care of, my love,” Jan said, his voice a soothing water cascading over rocks, a calm before a storm. He reached for her hand, and she cried as he squeezed her wrist and pulled her in. She stumbled, Jan’s snarling voice in her ear: “He won’t be my son any longer.”

He let her go, and she looked at her husband now, someone who had loved and understood her time and time again, someone she clicked with from the beginning. He had much changed; he was now someone wrought from the dark, a monster that crept under her bed. Maybe he was the monster she feared so long ago. 

But worst of all, Marya saw the ghost of what Wylan could become if he was stuck with her now ex-husband. It chased her into the nurses’ hands, quick to haul her into the asylum. She imagined Wylan’s warm eyes mixed with Jan’s cold ones, and she fought not to faint.

“Jan!” she screamed, pulling away from the nurses. “Jan! You won’t-- _ Don’t touch me! _ \--Jan!”

Her husband feigned fear, those clear and resentful eyes wide. It raised a new level of anger in her, and as she was dragged through the door, a shriek escaped her lips, something that came from the core, somewhere she’d kept hidden from the world. “ _ Van Eck! _ ”

The blue door shut, and with that slam, everything she’d known was slipping from her fingertips. She could see the keys of her piano clatter in a heap, Wylan’s hands fumbling with the flute put down the instrument out of anger.

The nurses plopped her in room looking out the back garden, walls as white as snow and too bare to even look at. A bed was at the far side of the room, and not much else was there. She heard the lock click, but she was too shocked to even turn her head.

Weeks turned into months since that day, and she’d resigned herself after one too many attempts at trying to tell the nurses she shouldn’t be here, furious with everything--the inmates, the building, her room--they treated her like there was something wrong with her, confined her to her room most days. 

Down along the creek that flowed outside the garden, the birds would fly and the deer would drink. She watched them frequently, and watching two birds chased each other through the sky and around the creek made her think of her relationship with Jan. She could only hope that the birds had a better life than she did.

She remembered when he was in her grasp on that afternoon on the bridge. She tried shaking it away, but she couldn’t. She was still in love with him, despite her broken heart. How much of it was a lie? When did she become nothing to him?

When they first met, his words were new and so exciting. They’d given each other wings and she invited him to her heart. But now she was gone. Now, life was a dream. She wanted to wake up from another nightmare and be in Jan’s arms, her life back to normal and hearing Wylan play his flute and enchant all of Geldstraat like she’d done so long ago. She knew that this was the truth--that he sacrificed his love for his own gain--yet she couldn’t take it.

A psychiatrist came by to see her quite often, asking her about her life and trying to decipher what was troubling with her. This doctor learned of her son, how much she missed him, learned she loved music and the piano, learned she liked to paint. She felt like something was dissecting her, turning her into something that was not herself. Her whole life was vanishing before her.

He’d asked if she’d like to have paints and easels and canvases, and Marya felt a sliver of hope make its way to her heart. Nurses came in with the things she requested and she felt like a small piece of herself again. 

The first thing that she’d made was of the bridge she’d been walking on so long ago, where she’d shared her first kiss. But something was different about it. Instead of a bridge with no one on it, there was a young boy with red-gold curls staring back at her. 

_ I don’t want to forget him, _ she’d thought.  _ I can’t forget him. _

It was at that moment that she knew that despite everything that was stripped from her--her name, her fortune, her life--she was still a mother, a wife, and most importantly, she was Marya Hendriks.

**Part Five: Forty Years Old**

_ Van Eck. Van Eck. Van Eck. Van Eck. Van Eck. _

Marya sat at the chair in her room, paints and easels and canvases surrounding her, the sunlight streaming through the window. 

Over the past eight years, she’d wished this was all a nightmare--something a demon had wrought from the cold depths of a serpentine sea, something the monsters underneath her bed had concocted. Then, she’d hoped someone would come get her, maybe Jan would have realized what he’d done, maybe Smeet would have been curious that Jan Van Eck’s wife had somehow disappeared.

She stayed in Saint Hilde.  _ Van Eck. _

The paintings brought her solace. She painted landscapes--the garden, snow, the brown leaves of fall, the harbors in Ketterdam, whatever idea or small memory that had popped into her head. She didn’t want to forget the little boy with red-gold curls, so she painted him, usually with his flute, giving her a toothy grin in almost every single one.  _ I love you, Mama. _

**_Van Eck._ ** _ Please, Ghezen, just let me forget  _ him _. _

She’d often wondered if Wylan knew. Maybe Jan had concocted some awful lie and told him she was dead. What was Wylan doing right now? What kind of mother was she to not be there for her son while he was growing up? 

Nurses did not answer her questions when they suddenly came inside, fixing her dress, wrapping a shawl around her. They brushed her hair quickly, pushed it over her shoulder. A few minutes later, she heard some chatter, some footsteps, and they grew louder as they came closer. Marya ducked her head, her hands folded in her lap.

The door creaked open.

“Miss Hendriks, you have visitors.” 

Two young men in dark suits filed into the room. One was Zemeni, the other Shu. Her chin lifted, studying the faces of the men. Did Jan send people to tell her something? Was Jan dead? She fought not to say it, but the words  _ “Van Eck,”  _ came out in a whisper. The Shu man’s eyebrow lifted slightly.

She stared at him, his golden eyes… sad. She could have sworn she’d seen him somewhere before. But who was he? In some structure of his face, she saw… “Should I… should I know you?” she ventured.

His expression turned into a mix of shock and sadness. His mouth opened, his throat working. “We… we met a long time ago,” he said finally, solemnly. “When I was just a child.”

_ It can’t be him. Not Wylan. Not Wylan Van Eck. _

She looked outside. The sun was shining, the flowers had not bloomed yet though. Beyond that, the gloom of the cemetary stared back at her. To her it served as a grim reminder of the time she’d lost and would keep losing. The rest of the garden reminded her of Ketterdam--in the spring and summer it was lively and warm, glowing with life with the few trees and the many, many wild flowers. But in the winter it was cold, and though it didn’t snow here it always had seemed that way. She loved it all the same.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the Shu turn to the Zemeni, and they exhcanged a few words. She heard the Shu boy sit down in front of her, a little commotion. And then Betje and the Zemeni walked out of the room, the door shutting behind them. She heard the jangle of keys as the door locked again, and her gaze met the boy in front of her. Who was he? Someone who wanted her money? 

“Hello,” he said. His voice was raw, familiar.

“Have you come for my money?” she asked, thinking about Jan. “I don’t have any money.”

“I don’t, either,” he replied.

She could see Wylan, but it was not really Wylan. She saw him in the way this boy moved, the way he spoke. If he truly was her son, how did he get here? What had happened to his appearance? It gave Marya a slight headache thinking about it. 

The boy’s hands twitched nervously, his lips pursed. Again he spoke, sounding more like Wylan with each word. “Do you like music?” 

_ Music? _ Why was he asking this? She could see herself, an old part of herself, at the piano. She could see the way Jan had once loved her, their first meeting; he had sat down beside her on the pianoforte and clumsily played through a Kerch song, laughing with her as she corrected him. She could see herself older, with a young boy at her side. The memories brought a faint smile to her lips. “Yes,” she said, nodding. “But there isn’t much here.”

Light glinted off the instrument as the boy carefully brought it out in front of her. It didn’t register at first, not until he brought it to his lips and started playing, his fingers dancing.  _ A flute. _ Memories of him attempting and practicing it all those years ago came at her full force, the memories that had replayed in her mind, but had eventually settled into silence.  _ He’d gotten better. _

“Play something cheerful, please,” she requested.

She was lost in the music, hearing reels and drinking songs and concert music, notes that she’d taught to Wylan, notes he must have learned on his own. She whispered along to the music she remembered, hummed, tapped her foot. In that moment, she wasn’t a patient in an asylum, she wasn’t a long forgotten wife. She was just Marya, spending time with her son. 

Wylan put down his flute, leaned forward. His now black eyebrows knitted together in a worrisome expression. The sun caught in his eyes, and underneath the clear, refined gold of his eyes she thought she could see a hint of cerulean. “What did they do to you?” he asked.

Who were ‘they?’ The asylum’s staff? The Merchant Council? The Van Eck house? Did it matter?  _ Many things, _ she wanted to say. It was countless. She didn’t know how she could tell her son how his father had put her here, how she’d lost who she was, everything that had been done to her.

She settled for not telling him. She placed her hand on his cheek, thumb running across the bone. His new face held the ghost of what Wylan used to look like, when he was a child. She tilted her head, trying to make sense of what could have happened. “What did they do to  _ you _ ?” she repeated.

Wylan’s face faltered, just slightly, and she suspected that Wylan had stories, things he could not tell her. Many things had happened to the both of them. Jan  _ Van Eck  _ specifically had happened to the both of them.

The nurse strolled in, and Marya dropped her hand, ducked her head to the floor. The nurse exchanged a few words with Wylan and his Zemeni partner. Her eyes wandered to his shoes, then she whispered,  _ “Van Eck.” _

Wylan must have heard her because hurt and confusion flashed across his face, but he didn’t say anything. Wylan left without another word, and the door shut softly, and the silence returned to her as though he had never been there.

An empty, blank canvas rested next to the door, untouched. It was the last one in the pile, and something--an idea, maybe--itched in the back of her head. She gripped the sides of her chair, making her way to her feet and to the canvas. Marya placed it onto the easel by her window, a white wall waiting for her paints. 

As she got the gallons of paints and brushes and her palette, she hummed a tune, a small part of a song that had been played for her today. She did not want to forget the boy next to her today, how he could have looked so different yet still be her son.

Red, blue, black--shining gold, like the sun. She turned colors into shapes, into someone who could be different from the man who put her in here. Yes, this boy who held the ghost of Jan Van Eck’s features was still the boy she raised, the boy she had not seen in quite some time. He might have looked different, but Wylan was still her son.

She didn’t realize that her son was wearing a mask until she had finished the last curl on top of his head, and she had started painting an older Wylan with his other face. She didn’t know why he looked so different, and it made her head ache at the thousands and thousands of questions crowding into her head-- _ Who is the new Wylan? What got him here? Was it Jan? Did he learn of his father’s true colors, all he is worth? _

Marya finished with the golden tilt of Shu eyes. The eyes that now possessed Wylan. She took a step back at her work, a fist forming around her heart. 

Wylan--the real Wylan--stared back at her, a frown tugging at the corners of his lips. In his right hand he held the mask of the Shu face he was wearing, music notes dancing around his head. He looked at her with those eyes, those perfect blue eyes, and it was too much. 

Marya’s son had grown up. He had grown into a man, someone that would take over a little empire--one that could serve his kindness. Jan had once said that Wylan would grow to have no backbone, no place with the wealthy dogs in Ketterdam. Looking at this painting and remembering how he had acted today, she knew he was wrong.

She didn’t realize she had started crying.

A little more than a week later (though, she could not tell how much time had actually passed), Marya had some more visitors. They were dressed in the same dark suits, but they were both Kerch. Three nurses were behind them, walking past them to help her out of the chair. 

“Good afternoon, Miss Hendriks,” said one of them. “Can you walk by yourself?”

“Yes, I can,” she confirmed, then added, “What’s going on?”

“Your son came to get you out,” she said. 

A wave of shock rolled through her body, as though a single raindrop had fallen on the top of her head and slid to her core. The nurses led her through the hallways, past the rooms she’d spent so long inside of, either playing chess with another woman or some other activity. With each passing step, Marya felt more sure this was not a dream, not a joke.

Then she saw the blue door, and through the little window a mess of red-gold curls caught her attention. She kept her eyes on that until the door was opened, and then the red-gold curls manifested into a boy no younger than sixteen, a boy she was proud to call her son. 

_ “Wylan,” _ she said, holding her breath. She was worried that this image of him would vanish like smoke if she blinked. 

Wylan Van Eck moved away from the Zemeni boy at his side, briskly walking across the small room and pulling her into a hug. Instinctively, she stood there, frozen in time as his arms wrapped around her, shaking. His hand clenched the back of her dress, and she realized he was sobbing. 

Motherly instincts brushed off the cobwebs in her system, waking up something inside her. She wrapped her arms around her son, fingers brushing through his hair. “It will be alright,” she whispered. He sobbed harder.

“I missed you so, so much,” Wylan cried. He pulled away from her, pushing the heel of his hand into his eye, then smiled a little. “So much has happened over the past eight years. It’s so overwhelming. I… I don’t think you’ll be able to handle it.”

_ Oh, I think I could, _ Marya thought, but did not say. She laughed. “I love you, Wylan.”

“I love you, too, Mama.”

***

Marya Hendriks never truly got over the trauma her husband had given her, but with the help of her son and his friends, she was able to live with it. She moved back into her home on Geldstraat.

She loved every part of the house when she was living with Jan, then she learned to hate every single inch. She hated the room she and Jan shared, hated the music room, hated the dining and the bed room. She hated everything. She hated how much she hated everything. But never Wylan. She couldn’t bring herself to let anger take him away from her. 

When she was back, she realized that she didn’t need to be angry anymore. The house was brighter because of Wylan and his boyfriend, Jesper. There was a mysterious, large hole in the ceiling of the dining room, but that didn’t matter. His friends tried visiting as much as possible, and she took a liking to the Suli woman who dreamed of hunting men who wronged women, knives hidden on her person at all times.  _ Inej was her name, right? _

She briefly met a young man with a strange gait. He seemed kind to Wylan, but cold, too. She could tell something haunted him, but she never pried. “It was nice meeting you, Miss Hendriks,” he said when he was leaving. He hadf eyed Wylan and Jesper, and added, “I think you’re in good hands.”

Although Marya had not met the Heartrender, and would never meet the Fjerdan boy that Nina fell in love with, Wylan and Jesper told stories about them. How she was fierce and selfless and kind, and how Matthias had grown to realize his mistakes, and made an effort to fix them. They couldn’t talk about him often. Sometimes, when he thought he was alone, she’d hear Wylan mutter,  _ “We all should have made it.” _

She recovered, eventually, but there were nights when she’d wake up screaming, when her skin felt like fire and Jan’s voice echoed in her ears. When Wylan would burst into her room and pull her into a hug, telling her it was just a nightmare. When the image of Jan pursued her into the early hours of morning, silence and darkness surrounding her. She knew that parts of him would never leave her, but she still hated it.

So she spent years painting the things that brought her joy. She painted the peaches that were on the counter in the spring, her son at his wedding, and the sun’s rays glittering off the canal waters. She painted her happiness and everything that became a part of her now that Jan wasn’t.

Wylan and Marya were sitting together when he told her everything that had happened to him when she was gone. From being neglected, to feeling hopeless, to Jan attempting to murder him. Everything (yes, including the Ice Court job and why he was wearing a Shu boy’s face when they were reunited). Marya had laid a hand on his cheek and smiled, saying, “Wylan, I’m so, so sorry I wasn’t there. I know you’ve heard it before, but I will say it again: Your father was insane and a monster. I’m so happy you are unlike him. I’m so proud of everything you are and what you’ve accomplished.”

Wylan held her hand there, wiping away some of the tears sliding down his cheeks. “What about you?” he had asked. “What happened to you?”

Marya’s smile faded. She took a breath, and holding Wylan’s hand in her own, she told him what happened from the day they had last seen each other to the day she was out of Saint Hilde. When she finished, Wylan was somewhat shocked, but he had suspected some of it. After that, they sat in needed silence, watching the people walk by the house as they took in everything they were told. 

Hesitantly, Wylan leaned his head on her shoulders. “I love you, Mom.”

Marya pressed a kiss on the crown of his head. “I love you, too, Wylan.”

Months later, she’d died in her sleep, dreaming of a field full of wildflowers, sunlight shining over her face. It warmed her arms and body, and then a hand touched her shoulder. She looked up, marveling at the sight of Ghezen himself. 

Ghezen was a young man with eyes made of gold, and somehow embodied Kerch itself. He had mercher’s black, but trader’s tongue when he spoke. A crow and cup tattoo rested on his forearm. Bags of money were tied at his waist, along with things he could trade like fish or crops from Novyi Zem.

“Marya Hendriks,” he said. “Do you know what is happening?”

“Am I dead?” she asked.

Ghezen nodded. “Are you afraid?”

_ Maybe. Am I supposed to be? _ She had missed so many things during those eight years in the asylum, and nothing could make up for it. But she felt… content. She was okay with dying. She was unafraid. 

“No, I’m not,” she replied.

“Alright.” Ghezen held a hand towards her. Before the thought was even in her mind, he shook his head and said, “Jan Van Eck is not in the riches of my kingdom. You may lead a peaceful stay in death.”

“Thank you.”

The sun above them glowed brighter, and brighter, and brighter. With a small push, Marya stepped into the afterlife, and found the wonders and riches of Ghezen. It was like Kerch, like Ketterdam, but it was also like the countries had been put together in harmony. She saw Grisha from Ravka performing their magic and Shu children playing with Zemeni children. The Fjerdans were kind, and there was one with long blonde hair who had smiled at her on her way inside.

Marya walked the streets she knew so well. She stayed in a building much like her old home, and where the living room was meant to be, she saw a glimpse into Life. Wylan was sobbing over her death, Jesper at his side. She wanted to comfort him, tell him that it was okay.

Marya Hendriks had found peace at last.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please leave a kudos and comment, they are greatly appreciated.


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